


Scattered Graces

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: A collection of femslash February minifics, originally posted on tumblr. Chapter titles detail characters. Content warnings in the opening notes of individual chapters.





	1. Monica/Niki: Things You Said When There Was No Space Between Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague ‘Niki stays with the other Mask Makers’ AU because I couldn’t think of anything canon compliant.

_Thud_.

“Stupid!”

 _Thud, thud, thud_.

“Why won’t you open?”

One final _thud_ – then a _sigh_.

“It’s not going to answer you.”

If the door could answer, perhaps it would shed some light on how they had ended up stuck on one side of it.

Backstreets and catacombs, underground workshops, networks of sewers, sprawling paths of interconnecting buildings; Lotto Valentino was brimming with secrets, and they were privy to more of them than the rest of the population combined. Monica could get anywhere in this city. No matter the destination, she knew the way by heart, each twist and turn; she knew it blind, by starlight or moonlight or by no light at all. For every route she had discovered, Niki had equally discovered a hiding place. She knew the cracks and crevices of this city like the back of her hand – where to run if there was trouble, where to go if it came looking for her, and all the dark corners where it grew like mold; places to avoid and sometimes, where information was concerned, places to seek out. The two of them were so familiar with their surroundings that they could have easily drawn up a map of the area down to all of the smallest details, all of the most well-concealed hideaways.

– And so they did.

They drew it out in lines and symbols, marked the paper with a code Niki could both use and comprehend — visual, innate. Monica would add street names later for the benefit of Huey and Elmer, but for now it was theirs, and they had no trouble discerning what every vivid stroke of ink was meant to convey.

Years ago the Mask Maker had ruled these streets with fear. No one could forget this. What they did forget, far too easily, was that the Mask Makers hadn’t ever _stopped_. It had been years since anyone was killed by the demon, but if one paid attention they might glimpse shadows sweeping past, youths with painted faces whispering hushed secrets to the air, charting the world they owned inch by inch, night by night.

It had been Monica’s idea to draw out plans of the city — but it had been Niki who had offered to help, with swiftness and fervour that had shocked all of them, herself the most. More than the others, she’d grown up here; on the streets, in the workshops, in the alleys and the marketplace. She hated the facts of her life, but for once they gave her something to offer: experience. She had volunteered that she could be useful to these people who had been of such use to her. 

But it wasn’t _all_ altruistic, not really.

In no small part she had hoped that if they truly did map out the entire city she might finally be able to pinpoint where she would choose to die. It had been a high expectation, and so far reality had not delivered.

They were now in a restrictive nook connecting the basement of an abandoned house to a concealed passageway — which was not quite what she had in mind for her last moments on earth.

“I know that, but —”

The mask slipped off her face and her brow furrowed with worry.

“I-I’m sorry, Niki, I shouldn’t have dragged you along with me.”

The cold rage that had filled her voice seconds earlier had dissolved completely, replaced with earnest apology. Their proximity was such that Niki had to cast her eyes to the ceiling to avoid looking at her.

“It’s alright. I asked to come.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Monica pursed her lips and ducked her head, bumping her forehead against Niki’s in the process.

“What if we never get out of here? What if we… if we never see Elmer and H-Huey again — I —”

It wasn’t just the rage; the confidence was gone, too. She spoke in mumbles, face reddening with every word. Her heartbeat was an erratic drum and, this close, Niki could feel its tremors.

“It was stupid of me — I shouldn’t have assumed it would still work after so long…”

Niki squinted at the hatch they’d climbed in through — wondering for a moment if they could simply retreat, but it was too high for either of them to reach. She bit back the urge to say _yes, it was stupid_ , because it _was_ but she couldn’t blame her for it. She had followed without arguing. If it was stupid of Monica, it was even stupider of her.

“Aren’t you worried?”

 _Worried_.

It hadn’t even occurred to her to be worried.

Annoyed. Disappointed. Tired. But, she realised very suddenly, not worried.

Even if the worst of Monica’s fears were realised and they never found a way out —

She had already accepted in the back of her mind that if this was how fate was going to have her die, rotting away in the claustrophobic entryway of a poorly designed secret passage, that was fine. It wasn’t ideal, but it was bearable. At least she wasn’t alone; pressed very close to her was someone for whom she held respect and gratitude — and they’d been on an adventure, the likes of which she’d never thought she would get to have, exploring and learning, and being _useful_. She’d gotten to be a part of something, not just a tool but a real, functioning part.

“No.”

She lifted her shoulders into a shrug.

“I can’t even pretend this is the worst situation I’ve been in.”

Monica said nothing. Niki met her eyes and was surprised to find them determined now rather than tearful. She thought she must have looked like statue, stony and unchanging, standing next to a woman so _dynamic_.

“No — it’s not the worst, is it,” she spoke quietly after a long moment; quietly, but not meekly.

Niki hadn’t meant to sound particularly encouraging — all she ever intended to sound was _honest_ — but Monica smiled, and she felt something close to pride that she had caused it. It was new; both being the cause of a smile and feeling pride at all.

“Neither of us are hurt,” she reasoned. “Not that it would matter much to me if I was, but …”

But Monica had been one of her rescuers. She deserved better. She trailed off, and into a question.

“The door’s just jammed, right?”

Monica nodded.

“There’s no lock on it.”

“So…”

She paused when Monica’s hand slid down her arm, momentary confusion sparing her the need to improvise. It was a blessing, because she was so used to being indifferent towards her troubles that she rarely _tried_ to solve them, and it was not unwelcome; she didn’t mind being so close to Monica — not for the fact of her being Monica, anyway.

“My stiletto.” She must have seen the way her expression had shifted — or maybe she just realised this was an open-ended gesture without clarification. “Could you take it out for me? It’s sort of…”

 _Cramped_. She was very aware.

She nodded and began to work the blade free of Monica’s sleeve. It felt heavy in her hand, though perhaps that was just the knowledge of how powerful a tool it was; how many lives it had taken, and how it could have taken hers. It was almost a thing of reverence, the potential of it; a killing thing in the grip of a dying thing. She pressed the hilt of it into Monica’s hand as soon as she could.

“Thank you.”

Again, she was being useful.

That must have been why she found herself smiling, too. _Usefulness_.

She didn’t have much time to consider any other possibility. In the next moment there was a splintering _crack_ , and Niki glanced down to see Monica’s stiletto tearing mercilessly into the door behind her.

“Really, thank you. I should have thought of that sooner,” she let out a sheepish laugh, ramming her elbow against the fractured wood. “I was so busy worrying… I forgot I even had it.”

She shook her head to herself, and, with a quick succession of stabs and shoves, the door, or what remained of it, gave way. Niki didn’t look particularly phased. Niki rarely looked particularly anything.

In truth, her gratitude was a greater mystery than her actions.

Monica stooped to pick up her mask, and they stepped out into the narrow passageway. The light dimmed the farther on she looked, and she could not see the end for the blackness. 

“There’s an opening to the streets coming up soon, if you — if you don’t want to keep going.”

Niki considered. She recalled the folded paper in her right hand, an unfinished map; a map only they _could_  finish — not Monica alone, but the two of them. She had a reason to be here, and that was not something she could say very often. 

“We can keep going. It would be silly if something like that could put me off, after everything.” 

Monica covered her face, and the Mask Maker chuckled.


	2. Illness/Claudia: Things You Said I Wasn't Meant To Hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG content warnings for child abuse and violence.

One week to her birthday.

Claudia tiptoes around her.

( _She knows_.)

She and Charon go out that night without her. She doesn’t ask why. She can think of thousands of reasons she wouldn’t be wanted; it would only hurt more to hear one specified. She sits on the couch and watches reruns of old sitcoms, counting the hours until they come back.

5 o’clock. 6 o’clock. 7 o’clock.  

( _They know._ )

The jokes don’t make her want to laugh. She laughs anyway. She doesn’t know why. No, she _does_ — because laughing at jokes is normal. She needs to be normal. She _needs_ to be.

( _They know. How do they know?_ )

8 o’clock. 9 o’clock. 10 o’clock.

Sunlight fades into dusk, then night. The light switch remains untouched. She hugs the pillow closer to her chest with quaking arms, unable to move beyond trembling. The screen flickers. Maybe it’s her eyelids fluttering. She isn’t sure. She isn’t sure when to laugh anymore. The sound from the TV set reaches her ears as a vague buzzing.

( _How do they know? They can’t know —_ )

Is it 11 o’clock yet?

She can’t move her eyes to look at the clock.

They should be back by now.

Unless they’re not coming back.

Unless they’re not coming back, because they _know_.

They know she’s not supposed to be alive.

— But she wants to be. She _wants_ to be. They can’t know that. _They can’t_.

She needs the laughtrack to guide her. _Tell me to laugh_. _Let me be normal_. It’s gone. The room seems dimmer. Someone must have turned off the TV. No one else is there, but someone must have. Claudia, or Charon.

No, they’re not here.

Her breaths come shallow, and she is between gasping for air and holding back from heaving. If she opens her mouth the nausea will win out. It’s dark, and — cold. She doesn’t feel the blanket hugging her skin anymore; soft fabric is replaced with rough hands. _So that’s why_. Her head is being held under water. If she opens her mouth she’ll choke.

She clenches her jaw and wills herself not to breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

_One week to her birthday_.

She is turning ten.

She’s gathered from books and TV shows that ten is an important age. _You’re a big kid now! The double digits!_ — they always smile. They smile like her parents do; real, genuine smiles.

“It’ll be a great party!”

That’s right, sometimes she tells herself they’re planning a party.

“She’ll never expect it!”

That’s right, everything else is just so she won’t expect. She’s seen it on TV plenty of times. It’s someone’s birthday, and everyone pretends they don’t know, and acts cold towards them, but then in the end it’s all so that it can be a big surprise! There are balloons and a cake, and everyone laughs and sings _Happy Birthday_.

That’s right, she tells herself as fire eats away at old scars to leave new ones, as hot knives dig under her skin, as her head is forced under water. They let her up just before she suffocates each time, and between coughs she interrupts their prayer to ask: _what’s gonna happen on my birthday?_

 _Something very special_ , they tell her, and for a moment she smiles — in spite of the agony, she smiles. It must be true then; a surprise party. All of this, all these years — for a moment she honestly convinces herself that it really had been for the sake of making this birthday _special_ by comparison.

 _You’re going to die_.

That moment ends abruptly.

_It’s truly a privilege._

_The happiness your death will bring is insurmountable!_

That means it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt — _insurmountably_. She doesn’t know the word, but her father gestures grandly. It must mean _a lot_. It’s going to hurt a lot.

Sharpened blades dig into her back. _It’s going to hurt a lot_. The wall of hope blocking off the pain crumbles. She doesn’t want to hurt. She doesn’t want to die. Her chest constricts, but she can’t open her mouth to breathe. She wants to be normal.

She wants to be _human_.

Humans get to celebrate their tenth birthday as though it is a milestone on the journey of life.

Gods, she learns, must mark it as the finish line instead.

The people circling her laugh.

Why are they laughing? They laugh. They keep _laughing_.

“Aw, I told you she’d be asleep. That’s so cute!”

She _wishes_ she could sleep through this. All she can do is scream. Can’t they hear her? She opens her mouth to scream louder, but she can’t make a sound — she’s choking.

“Hey, Charon, could you turn off the TV?”

 _Charon_.

The sound shifts into the upbeat laughtrack of an old sitcom.

Claudia and Charon are home.

More than that — _she’s_ home.

She tries to breathe; she _does_ breathe. In, out, in, out. Cautiously, she opens her eyes. The room is brightened with warm, artificial light. On the screen two men hold casual conversation at a kitchen counter. _In, out, in, out_. Her throat is dry when she speaks.

“H-Hey —”

(She knows.)

Her bones feel brittle, fragile, as though if she moves they might shatter — but she wills herself to turn her head. Claudia looks almost startled, eyes wide, scrambling to hide something behind her back.

“Illness!” She beams at her. “I thought you were asleep.”

She’s hiding something; Illlness can’t focus on anything else. Claudia never lies. She struggles to conjure a reason she would be lying _now_ , until the worst ones come to her unwarranted. 

Her mother steps into her room with something sharp held behind her back. They say it should hurt more when she does not see the injury coming, but she still does not know if this is true; all pain feels the same now. It just hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 

“W-What are y-you…”

Claudia lips purse into a frown when she follows Illness’ stare. 

(She knows.) 

“You must have heard us talking, huh? I guess it can’t really be a surprise anymore.” _A surprise_. “Oh well! I promise we’ll find another way to make it special.”

 _Something very special_. 

Her breath catches in her throat. 

 _You’re going to die_. 

“Do you want another blanket? You’re shivering —”

“I-I’m sorry! I-I’m r-really sorry! I-I… I know I was s-supposed to d-die then but — but d-don’t kill me, p-please —!”

There is a soft _thud_  as Claudia’s hands loosen their grip and drop their contents to the floor. 

“Don’t… kill you?” she repeats. 

(They _don’t_ know.) 

Somehow this realisation is worse. 

She doesn’t like the expression painted on Claudia’s face; her usual mirth replaced by a furrowed brow and wide, worried eyes. She casts her gaze away, because she _can’t_  look at this — but Charon is not a much more reassuring sight. The emotion is more muted on him, as all emotions are, but there is something not exactly _blank_  about his stare. They don’t know — _didn’t_  know.

And now she wishes she could repeal the words she’d spoken.

“Uhh.” She shakes her head, pulling her knees tight to her chest. “F-Forget I said that, it’s, uh — I — I…”

“Do you mind taking those bags upstairs, Charon?”

Her voice sounds too serious to belong to her, and her smile is faint as she watches her brother shut the door behind him. 

“I… I d-didn’t mean to say th-that…”

“I know.” She turns back to face her. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear it.”

Illness, unable to bear to watch her expression shift any further from a smile, lowers her head and mumbles: “A-Are you, um, are you angry?” 

The silence following this question is longer than she would like. 

“I am angry,” Claudia says, and she feels her eyes sting. “But not with _you_ , Illness. I’m angry with whoever hurt you enough that you’d say that.”

Those boys had been angry too, when they’d saved her. They’d said: _we’re angry at them, not you_. They’d echoed those same heroic words, and then they’d died. They had been good people, just like Claudia is — too much like Claudia is. _No no no no no_.

She shakes her head.

“… it’s… it’s fine, really. It’s o-okay, Claudia, I was just being weird, r-right? It’s —”

“It’s not okay,” she interrupts. “It’s not okay that something happened to you to make you think that — that we’d _kill you_ , that you’re supposed to be dead. Illness, you don’t have to tell me about it, but you have to know that it’s not _okay_.”

She puts a hand on her shoulder, and Illness does not move, does not look up, does not speak. 

“You have to know that it’s not okay, and it’s not true.” That serious edge to her voice has faded into gentle comfort. “Even if you thought that once — I need you to listen, alright? — even if that was the case, it changed the second you became a part of my world.”

She covers her face, hiding unwanted tears. She isn’t supposed to know — and she isn’t supposed to react like this; with kindness, with compassion. 

“You don’t _want_  to die, do you?”

She lifts her head, smudgy eyes wide with surprise. 

“N-No! No, Claudia, I… I really want to keep living. I-I like being alive, e-e-especially _now_ …”

She always has. She’s always wanted to keep living. She wants it terribly and overwhelmingly and selfishly: she has killed for it, she has put herself through hell for it — and recently it has finally begun to seem worth it. Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why this fear grips her more than ever. The thought of losing the life she’d longed for now that she finally has it is unbearable. 

“Right — then there’s no ‘supposed to’ about it,” Claudia tells her confidently. “You’re going to keep living, and, unless you decide otherwise, I’m going to make sure no one gets in the way of that.”

It takes a long time for Illness to regain enough composure to nod, but when she does, Claudia smiles and wraps her arm around her shoulder. They sit like this until her shaking calms and her tears dry up, and then she squeezes her arm and says: 

“Hey, can I show you something? It was gonna be for your birthday, but it’s close enough, right? I got you other presents, anyway!”

Illness bites back her fear, and she leads her from the living room, up the hall to the front door and then out onto the driveway. Her reddened eyes light up at the sight. 

“I-It’s Sharky!” 

“We finished filming so I asked if we could keep him. They obviously weren’t going to say _no_ to Claudia Walken!”

“This is the b-best!” she squeaks between _sniffles_. “It’s _t-too_ good. Thank you s-so much!”

 _One week to her birthday_. 

— And for the first time in seven years she does not have nightmares about it.


	3. Carla/Lucrezia: "It's simple, really"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "It's simple really. Here let me show you."

The ballroom is another world before the dancers, marble arches strange and senseless formations lacking aristocrats to flitter between them — too grand, too looming a space without a purpose to explain its existence — and yet Lucrezia is not another _person_. She dances on her own as though she is _not_  dancing on her own, as though every twirl of white lace leads her into the grateful arms of another gracious lover. Carla counts them, these imagined courtiers, but does not count herself among them. As always, her place will be at the door, watching, just watching — _admiring_ , she does not let herself admit, the moments of beauty, both subtle and striking: supple limbs, blithe smile, petals dancing in time to her rhythm as they fall from her crown and catch in the air. There is some soundless music which she and her invisible partners seem to hear clearly, which Carla only wishes she could hear, which Carla supposes must be breathtaking to inspire such breathtaking movement. 

She traces every corner of the room with her sweeping, elegant steps before they lead her to stand in front of her again. Carla draws her parted lips into a taut frown, replacing admiration with a more professional pretense. Watching; she was only _watching_. 

“Don’t look so serious, darling,” Lucrezia says, her head tilted coyly. The curve of her lips wants for a reaction, and Carla is torn between her duty to oblige and her duty to remain stolid — and something other, something _not_  duty, something that starts when her attention falls on her and would unravel her in a second if she were not of more practised resolve. “Tell me what you were thinking just now. That expression on your face was _delightful_.”

She twirls a loose curl between her slender fingers, gesture as idle as her eyes are _attentive_. Carla meets her gaze and stares for a long moment, unsure of how to answer, unsure of _what_ expression she’d been wearing. Thick eyelashes flutter, signalling that she has stalled long enough. 

“If you don’t mind me saying, Milady —”

“I never mind _you_  saying, sweetheart,” she cuts in. Carla averts her eyes.

“I don’t understand how you can spin so much without getting lightheaded.”

She very nearly felt lightheaded just from _seeing_ those movements; dizzying, daring, _dazzling_. 

“Oh, it’s simple, really.” Lucrezia laughs, and then her fingers are on the collar of Carla’s coat, tugging, gently but with a kind of strength she cannot fight. The force is not in the pull but in the voice; confident, wanting. Her voice makes requests which sound more like commands: “Here, let me show you.”

In her words she tries to protest — a sigh, a half-hearted  _that’s not necessary, Milady_  — but she cannot even convince _herself_ when her body cooperates so willingly to being led down the steps. Her feet feel heavier here, her work boots out of place on finished wood; she is agile on a battleground but clumsy on a dance floor. It’s a contradiction, but she swears by it as though it is _natural_. 

“The trick is to keep your eyes focused,” Lucrezia tells her. To her credit, her eyes _are_  focussed — on the floor. A pale hand sweeps up to lift her chin. “Keep them on me, darling.”

This is a suggestion. A request. A command. 

“I’m not supposed to dance, Milady.”

An arm wraps around her waist, one hand settling at the small of her back while the other works to pry apart Carla’s stiff fingers. She wills herself to relax them, and Lucrezia’s fingers interlock. She wills herself not to grip too tightly, even though the touch makes her tense. 

 _She’s_ leading, then. A small mercy; Carla would not know what to do if not follow Lucrezia. Perhaps this is not a statement about dancing. 

“Silly Carla, that’s just not true. I believe soldiers are _made_  for dancing,” she hums, positioning their arms. Carla feels hers move, but only distantly; let Lucrezia control it for now, she decides. “Name one difference between a solider and a dancer, sweetling. I doubt you can! The same posture and poise, careful coordination, passion — place your other hand on my shoulder, won’t you?”

The moment it takes to trail her hand up her arm feels far too long. The fabric of her sleeve is a thin barrier, enticingly thin; it’s impossible not to wonder at the unblemished skin that lies beneath. She curses herself for wondering at it, steels herself as any decent bodyguard ought to. _Keep your eyes on me_ , she is reminded, and she does. 

“See, my sweet, your feet are already falling into time.”

Into time with _what_ , she wonders? The soundless music, the beats between her words, the steady drum of her heart against her chest — or perhaps she is  _falling into time_ , and that’s all there is; falling into these long, drawn out moments, being enveloped by them. Her feet move. She does not move them, but they move, following Lucrezia in dance as she does in life.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s no different from swordplay. Once you learn the movements it’s just matter of trusting your body to remember them.”

Carla does not voice her disagreement, but she would contest that it is in _every way_  different from swordplay. A sword feels familiar, comfortable in her hand. She knows how to hold a sword. She does _not_ know how to hold Lucrezia; only that it must not be too tightly, must not be too _stiffly_ , must be nothing like swordplay. 

“It’s not the dancing that worries you, though, is it, Carla?”

Her hand presses into her back when she laughs, drawing her nearer.She keeps her eyes on her, even as her proximity makes this more difficult to maintain; however out of place she may feel, she takes solace in fulfilling the request she was given. 

“… Milady?” 

“It’s the closeness. You silly thing,” she teases. 

She leads her into one of those dizzying, sweeping turns, but now Carla is _very_  focused on Lucrezia, and the disorientation does not hit. What hits instead is embarrassment, denial — she’s above being off-put by such frivolous things  — then shame, then the realisation that she isright. It’s no different from swordplay, except that in swordplay one’s opponent is kept at arm’s length. 

“None of it _worries_ me, Milady. I’m willing to do whatever is required of me.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt _that_ , my brave, loyal Carla.” She slows to a halt. The dance ends, and she continues to hold her. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t worry you.”

Her hand slips from Carla’s grip and travels up, fingers tiptoeing along the seam of her coat.

“Have you ever _been_  close to anyone, darling?”

She furrows her brow at the question. 

“Do you mean to ask if I’ve ever danced before?”

A thumb brushes against her cheekbone. Lucrezia grins; sweet and salacious in one small shift of expression. 

“I mean to ask if you’ve ever been _close_ to anyone,” she repeats slowly, syllables drawn out not with impatience but with amusement. 

Carla knows when she is being condescended to — she is _more_  than accustomed to it — yet this is a different brand of condescension. From Lucrezia it does not aim to weaken her spirit, only her composure. 

“Milady, I wouldn’t know —”

“ _No_? It’s simple.” She can feel these words against her lips. A hand pressed against her back, a hand tangled in her hair, a delicate frame leaning into her; she can feel _many_  things. “Let me show you.”

She must confess that _here_ she loses focus. 


End file.
